Staring Into the Abyss
by Hymn Angelic
Summary: When she finds Erik dying, Christine simply has to heal him. Will the flames between teacher and pupil flare again, even though she is now a married woman?
1. Discovery

Staring Into the Abyss

Hymn Angelic does not own any characters, places, phrases, etc. from 'The Phantom of the Opera'.

Chapter 1:

Discovery

**It was a dreary day in Paris.** One of those days that visitors to the city, as well as it's occupants, liked to pretend did not exist. 'Not in Paris,' they would whisper amongst themselves, as they sat in the sunshine on beaches or in parks. 'Never in Paris.' But the constant denial of it's existence had not prevented this gloomy day from arriving. The sky was a depressing gray, and there was a thick mist hovering above the ground. It did not reach high enough to obscure a carriage driver's vision; it simply hovered, filling the air with moisture and the people in the air with an uncomfortable dampness. The buildings seemed foreboding and gray in the hazy light, matching the apparent color scheme the weather had provided. There was also the threat of imminent rain hanging within the suspicious clouds above the city. It was through this mist and past these suddenly unfriendly buildings that a carriage clattered, bearing the crest of 'de Chagny'.

Christine stared mournfully out of the carriage window. A dark shadow haunted her eyes, making it seem doubtful they had ever held a lively sparkle. She felt an ache in her chest, and turned toward the other passenger. Raoul was looking out his own window, head studiously turned completely away from her. The urge to say something sank, and she turned back silently.

He was ignoring her. Punishing her with his silence. He meant to make her upset enough to speak first, to apologize first, or, best of the three, call the entire thing off. It would not work. If she did not do this, she would never be at peace. She ached for him to understand, but knew that he never would. He had never felt his soul rise or experienced such pure ecstasy as she had. It broke her heart to know that her own husband would never understand her longing. She could never say a word, of course. It was painful enough with her own heart cracking with sorrow. To know that she had caused his heart to feel the same pain would be completely unbearable. Because she knew he would not be able to stand it if he knew that she would always be a mystery to him.

One year. She smirked grimly to herself. A whole year. Or, as Raoul probably saw it, only a year. A year since she had stepped foot in her beloved Opera House. It was closed now. It didn't matter. She had to return. Her soul hungered to see the familiar statues, the sweeping architecture, the beautiful stage. Raoul knew it, too. She had spun him a tale of how she needed to retrieve some personal artifact, abandoned in her dressing room when they had fled. But he could tell. She wasn't sure what had given her away. The pleading hunger in her eyes that she could not hide. The taut, uncomfortable way she held her body now.

_You look like a dancer, Christine. Why must you stand like that?_

How she had longed to turn to him in tearful fury when he said that to her. 'It's because I am a dancer, Raoul! I always have been, and I always will be!' She wanted to say it. She needed to say it. But she didn't say it. She just smiled, tried to adjust her posture so it was not so obviously that of a ballerina, and cried silently when not even the maids could see her. She was losing it now. Even when she was completely alone, she was unable to bring her body back to the form it had once held constantly. She hadn't even attempted to sing. It hurt too much. She was sure now that, if put to the test, her voice would fail her. She did not even speak much anymore. It all made her yearn for the Opera.

_It's not exactly…normal, Lotte. You understand what I'm saying, don't you?_

Yes, she understood. Of course she understood. She wasn't to tell his proper, upper class friends where she had come from. Bragging about her dear father's fame…that was perfectly acceptable as well as expected. But even mentioning her own brief period of stardom? Strictly forbidden. Viscounts did not marry opera singers. And they certainly did not marry former chorus girls. Even if the name she had once held was Christine Daaé, she barely felt she knew that girl, much less was her. Perhaps this was the way all women felt when they grew older and shed their father's name.

Their wedding had not been the fairy tale she once imagined. A brief, hurried affair, with next to no guests and a gown that had been purchased from a store window. After their escape from the terrifying cellars of the Opera, they had been frightened still. Their fear had led them to marry as soon as possible, as though the union would frighten away any lingering horrors that may have followed them. Or, she thought wryly, one specific 'horror' in particular.

The carriage had stopped. Christine rose as the door was opened for her. She accepted the driver's hand and stepped out daintily, holding up her thick, woolen gray skirts to prevent them from falling into a puddle. _How quaint,_ she thought as she scanned the neighborhood. _I match._ Her lips were pursed in a vaguely derisive manner, daring anyone to disturb her or comment. Then her eyes landed on the ruined Opera House. Every last bit of her nonchalant façade fell away immediately. Her eyes softened, and she thought suddenly that she might cry from the tragic beauty of it.

Parts of her former home were obviously charred, while most was simple covered in ash or debris. It was clear there had been no major activity here since the, now infamous, 'accident'. Windows were broken. The building that had once commanded awe and respect was now withered and tattered. It reminded her of a beautiful woman who had woken up one morning to find herself old and decrepit, the world quietly mourning the loss. She was so enraptured with the sight of her devastated home; she did not even hear Raoul jump out of the carriage behind her.

"Wait here," he said to his driver. "We won't be long." The driver nodded his understanding and Raoul strode past Christine, barely even glancing at the once magnificent structure. "Come along," were his first curt words to Christine after an entire morning of silence, "Let us be done with this quickly."

Choosing not to respond, Christine followed her husband up the steps, aching inside with each time her foot touched stone.

It was not until she reached the doorway that she felt a wave of apprehension. Certainly…_he_ could not still be here? Haunting, waiting, stewing in his madness and fury. She had a sudden mental image of him in his lair. _Sitting in front of his impressive organ, the cold white mask blocking his deformity from view. He scowls as he scribbles notes down on parchment. He bangs his fist against the keys in fury. He's angry, always angry. At her. In an instant, he senses that she is in his domain, his Opera House. Because truly, it is known that this has always been his Opera House, and his alone. He stands, rage flashing behind those deceptively cool eyes. He stalks through his terrifying secret passages, listening and watching. Listening and watching for a sign. In only moments he discovers her. Alone. Unprotected. Easy prey._

"Christine!" She jumped at Raoul's voice and looked into the lobby. He stood at the base of one of the staircases, looking highly annoyed. "Are you coming?"

With a hasty nod, she swallows her worries and walks in. No trapdoors send her hurtling downward, no nooses slip around her neck, no threatening chords ring out. Feeling emboldened she continued on, shaking the image of the Phantom from her mind. As frightening as that picture had been, scarier still was the readiness with which it appeared.

**What harm could it do?** Christine stared fixatedly at a thick velvet curtain, covered in dust. There's a secret passage behind it, she knows, leading where all secret passages must lead. What harm could it do her to travel down, just once more? What harm could it do her to run her fingers over the keys of the organ, now surely covered in grime? What harm could it do, to sit down on the beautiful bed in the room intended for her, close her eyes, and remember times past? _What harm, indeed!_ A blush rose in her cheeks. All manner of terrible things could happen to her. Even if _he_ was not still there, she could slip. She could fall into the lake. She could get burned by the candles. And if _he_ was still there? The terror increased exponentially. A chill ran down her spine, imagining the things that might become of her if the Phantom awaited her in his lair.

But now that she had the opportunity, how could she not go? If she did not descend there now, it would be a constant ache for the rest of her life. She had to go now. She had to rid herself of any memories, or thoughts, or feelings that were still haunting her as surely as the Opera Ghost had haunted her during her days here. She had to wash her hands of all of it right now. Maybe when she returned, she would be able to do so many things others took for granted. Maybe she would be able to grasp Raoul's hand and not suddenly yearn for it to be encased in black leather. Maybe she would be able to kiss him and not remember tasting the salt from tears. This was not a choice she had. This was a task she could not turn away from.

With a deep breath to steady herself, she pulled the curtain back, pulled away the stone where she knew it would give and stared into the blackness. For a moment she told herself what a terrible idea this was and how foolish she was being; and how she should just walk back to Raoul and tell him she had completed her business and leave this cursed place for good. Then she walked into the darkness.

It was very wet, to say the least. Water dripped from walls and pooled on the ground. At least, Christine supposed it did. She could not see a thing in the black. The only times she had been through these passages, she recalled, were with her Phantom leading the way with his torch. _Wait just a moment…my phantom?_ However, she had no time to think on her odd phrasing, because her soft, expensive slippers failed to give her proper traction on the slick stones, and she fell. Her momentum caused her to slide several feet down the passageway, and it was only her complete shock that kept her from shrieking like a mad woman.

Once she had stopped sliding, she returned shakily to her feet, careful not to lose her footing. She placed a hand on the wall to steady herself and looked ahead. She could see the warm flicker of candles reflecting on the wall ahead, and her breath caught in her suddenly tight throat. Was it possible? Could it really be? She shouldn't go any further, she had to stop, she had to turn back. But her feet refused to obey her brain, and kept moving her inexorably forward towards the light.

The place looked almost identical to the last time she had seen it. The organ sat, piled high with pieces of parchment, on which she knew was scrawled beautiful music. The lake lapped casually at the stone, and the candles burned brightly. But looking closer, she could see the changes. Every mirror was shattered. And most candles were almost gone, some completely melted away. It was incredibly lucky, she realized, that the candles on top of the organ had not set alight to the many compositions stacked in their range.

The candles were burning, the lake was lapping, but where was the king of this dark kingdom? Where was the Phantom of the Opera?

"Hello, Angel." She froze and stiffened. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and a not-entirely unpleasant shiver went through her spine. That voice. So calm, collected. Not in the least surprised. He had been expecting her.

She turned slowly towards the source of the voice, although she knew that with his ventriloquism expertise, he could be any where. But he was there. He lay on the floor, head propped up precariously by an uneven stone. His eyes were half closed, and a dreamy smile was spread across his face.

"Have you come to carry me away from the wretched existence at last?" He asked, then snickered quietly to himself. Christine felt relief rush through her. He was delirious. He probably didn't even know she was actually there. But as soon as the relief came, it was gone. Why was he delirious? People did not hallucinate without good reason. Ignoring her better instincts, she came forward, then knelt, not a foot away from him. She scrutinized his face. Still as captivating as ever, with the enigmatic mask still in perfect place. Of course.

"Thank you for coming, Angel," he murmured suddenly, "I would not have been prepared to leave without seeing you." Slowly, waveringly, he reached a hand up towards her face. She was frozen, unable to pull away as his hand brushed her cheek. As leather made contact with flesh, his eyes opened fully and he drew his hand away in an instant. "Christine. You are not…what are you…why would…leave…" He could not even form a sentence; she could see him struggling against the delirium.

"You are very sick," she whispered, then mentally slapped herself. He obviously was aware of that fact. But he did not react with sarcasm or derision. He began shaking his head violently from side to side; to the point that she worried his brain might be in danger.

"You must go now. Leave here. You promised…" he broke off as his eyes rolled backward.

"No!" She seized his shoulder, reflexes taking over. "I'm going to make you well again." What was she saying? What the hell was she saying? He was a kidnapper, a murderer, a madman, vicious and unrelenting. He would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and she was talking of saving him? Would it not be a gift to the world to let him die right here? Apparently the man in question agreed with her inner monologue.

"Leave me, Christine! I do not deserve any…anyth…" he faltered again, but she squeezed his shoulder tighter, trying desperately to keep him anchored here.

"I will help you, I will."

"I could," he closed his eyes, and she saw the tears again. She felt her heart pounding harder than ever at the sight of his tears. She remembered for the briefest moment the beautiful music they made together, not merely when they sang. When his eyes opened, she saw his monumental weariness of life. "I could never ask you."

Christine stared down at the body of her mentor, teacher, angel, captor, deceiver. He was begging her to leave him here to die. He had only hurt her as long as she had known him. Why should she-

Because it wasn't true. In the beginning, he was truly beautiful. He was all that kept her from going mad with grief at the loss of her beloved father. He gave her strength. He gave her beauty. She felt safe and loved. Before there was stardom, before there was Raoul, even before sweet roses with black ribbons, there was a scared little girl and a beautiful angel who saved her from the coming black with his own warm darkness. His darkness had always been different than any other darkness she had known. While most of the little ballet rats were frightened in the dark and saw it as cold and imposing, Christine knew how warm and supporting it could be.

When she wept for Papa Daaé in the night, she always heard a sympathetic voice singing to her softly, making her feel better. He taught her how to sing, the one thing that brought her more happiness than dance in her youth. He praised her when she was good, and criticized when she made mistakes, but he was never cruel. It was what he had taught her that led her to what became the happiest time of her life.

But it also was the most terrifying times she had ever known. Gone was the gentle teacher of her childhood. He had always been strict, he had always demanded obedience and perseverance, and she had never failed him. Now, looking back, she wondered if the mad obsession had always been there, and she too blind or innocent to see it. His voice was always her strength and, ironically, her light. It became the one thing she feared most. He was always there, he was everywhere, and she could not escape him. She felt confined and claustrophobic, knowing every instant of every day that he was there, he was watching her. And all her worry and all her fear climaxed when he attacked. He was a monster with no respect for human life. Except hers.

But now, as she stared down at his desperately vulnerable form, she found herself unable to feel the bubbling hatred and terror she had once felt. He was no longer a phantom, an angel, or a beast. He was a man. He was a very ill man who might die in front of her at any moment. Just as her father had. She couldn't save Papa. There was nothing she could do. She had to save this man. She had to prove to herself that she had the ability to prevent death when she found it. She lost the one person who mattered most to her. She would not lose again.

Her decision made, she felt her chest swell in pride, but she was soon deflated. How was she to get him to the surface? Even in his incapacitated and obviously malnourished state, he was far larger than her, and heavier than she could even drag. She cursed herself for being slight, and again for her expensive dress that further limited her movement. She considered for a few moments, then decided begrudgingly on the only choice she had.

"Raoul!" She shouted as loud as she could, feeling slightly sick to her stomach with pity as she saw her patient wince at the noise. "Raoul, I need you!"

She continued shouting for several minutes, praying that he would be able to follow her voice down the passage. Luckily, her prayers were answered, and he appeared at the other end of the room, looking terrified. She realized with sudden embarrassment that he probably thought she was being attacked.

"Christine, what is it? Are you all-_mon dieu!_" His eyes landed finally on the emaciated body of his rival, the one man he hated above all others.

"He's dying, Raoul," Christine pushed all other emotions to the back. She would have time to talk with Raoul when her teacher was healing. "He's dying."

His expression made it clear that Raoul did not see the issue in this. He looked at her, jubilant.

"We'll be free at last, Christine!" When she did not react with the same joy he felt, his brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "Christine?"

"I can't let him die, Raoul," she whispered, afraid to speak the treacherous words. His jaw nearly dropped open, and it was clear he thought she had gone completely insane.

"Christine, what are you saying? He's…he's…" Raoul could not even summon the proper word to express his disgust and hatred for the pitiful creature who lay dying on the stones.

"He's ill. He needs medical attention. I…" she hung her head. She never spoke against her husband. She was doing her best to be a well-bred wife, but she could not let this go. She bit her lip and looked back up at him, wishing he would look into her eyes and understand her muddled emotions. "I have to save him. He cannot die."

"Why?" He was desperately searching her face, horror at her words etched across his face. "Why do you insist on helping this…thing?"

"I," she hung her head once again, and did not look back up before speaking. "I do not know." She didn't, really. She hadn't fully worked out in her own head what truly compelled her to save the man who had haunted her. Who still haunted her. Raoul made a derisive sound, and she looked up sharply, filled with bravery from her adrenaline rush. "But I know I cannot leave him here to die. It is God's will-"

"God's will?" Raoul laughed, dryly and mirthlessly. "God has nothing to do with this despicable creature." Christine stared at him, desperation flooding her. Why had she thought Raoul would help her? He had no reason to whatsoever. He had never glimpsed the beauty that lay behind the vicious thorns. But she had to convince him to help. She had to. She screwed up her courage and looked up so their eyes locked.

"I will not leave without him." Raoul stared at her in disbelief, and she folded her arms across her chest. She sent fervent messages to him through her eyes, willing him to do this for her. They both knew that it would not be impossible, or even very difficult, for him to simply lift her and carry her back to the carriage. She prayed that, out of respect, he would not do that. He could not look away from her, and the hurt and questioning in his eyes dug into her. She ignored it as best she could. She could not waver the tiniest bit, or he would gain control.

"Christine, you must be-"

"Do this for me," she interrupted, "and I will never speak of him again. And…" she took a deep breath. This was more painful than she could ever have imagined, but as they say about desperate times… "I will never return here."

His eyes widened. This was an offer almost too good for him to turn away. The shadow of the Phantom and the Opera House darkened every day. He would like nothing better than to forget that either had ever existed. And now she gave him the chance to achieve his goal. He would not have to think about it, she would not mention it, this whole place could fade into oblivion. His mouth worked as his brain did, until his shoulders drooped from their defensive position and he smiled ruefully at her.

"The things I am willing to do for you, Little Lotte."

She leapt to her feet and embraced him, then quickly set him to work. With all his strength, Raoul was still not quite able to lift the other man, but he could drag him along the wet stones. Christine smiled a little brighter. The treacherous stones that had caused her to fall now allowed her to rescue her former master.

The Phantom protested weakly, head lolling as Raoul dragged him by the wrists. Christine noticed, with some remorse, that while he was saving his archrival…he was not taking any pains to make the movement more comfortable. It took several minutes longer to get up the passage than it had taken Christine to walk down it alone, but they reached the dusty light of the surface within half an hour of their arrival. They continued towards the door until they reached the top of the stairs, where Raoul called for his driver. The man came quickly, and stared in shock at the limp body. However, he recovered and, their strengths combined, he and Raoul carried him to the carriage.

"Wait!" Christine, glancing at a cracked flower pot that had filled with rain water, was struck with an idea. She pulled up her outer skirt, causing Raoul to exclaim 'Christine!' and the driver to gasp and turn away embarrassed, and ripped a strip from her petticoat. She dunked it into the water, then ran over to climb into the carriage. She lifted the now unconscious man's head and shoulders gently, then lay his head back into her lap. Raoul cried his protest, and the driver, now thoroughly overcome with shame at the behavior of his mistress, climbed to his seat so he would see no more. "There's no time to complain. His head must be supported."

Raoul looked as though he would refuse her comment, but knew it to be the truth. He climbed up next to the driver, his space in the carriage taken up by the new patient, and the carriage clattered away down the streets.

Christine looked down at the head of the unconscious man in her lap and gently sponged his face with her dripping petticoat fabric. She worked her way across his face, until she reached the mask. She paused, hand hovering, unsure of what to do. She could remove the mask…but she quickly decided against that. Trusting to his deeply ingrained reflexes, he would most likely awaken if she touched the mask. And if he awoke, he was certain to be angry. After all, she had done the one thing he despised most: disobeyed his direct order to leave him. Though he would no doubt be angry anyway when he healed and awoke then, trusting to God that he _would_ heal, it would be safer for all parties involved if that was at the de Chagny manor. She would feel safer there, at least. So she simply continued to carefully cool the smooth side of his face, and pray that he would at least live out the carriage ride.

**Author's Notes**

**I should not be starting a new fic. I really shouldn't. But I am. Oh well. This fic has been ingrained in my mind since a few weeks after I first saw the movie (that would be…January?), and now I am finally giving in. This will be mainly centered around the ALW 2004 movie version, but elements of Leroux may come into play, depending on how the story develops. I'd like to have more Leroux, but I've only read the book once. Whilst the movie…going on seven times now, I think. Please review, and be forewarned: This fic will likely be updated slowly. I have many other things that I'm working on, especially if I'm going to attempt to keep up this outstanding chapter length (mine are usually at most 4 pages…this is 8 of pure story). I'd also love some concrit since I am trying to write an actually serious fic. Most of my stories are a tad…tongue-in-cheek/sassy. So if I'm trying to hard, and this is melodramatic, please tell me. Then again, a lil' melodrama never hurt anyone. This author's note is now exceedingly long, so I leave you to review (as I am certain you will. Because if you don't…I have been known to beat people with pretzel sticks. You have been warned.)**


	2. Homecoming

Hymn Angelic does not own any characters, places, phrases, etc. from 'The Phantom of the Opera'.

Chapter 2:

'Homecoming'

**Due to the weather, only a few stalwart servants gathered to greet the returning Viscount and Countess.** However, those who did wait outside the de Chagny manor house were treated to an odd sight when the carriage pulled up. Their master was no where to be seen, the driver was flushed red from both embarrassment and windburn, their mistress held a strange man in her lap. With all this excitement, the strange man himself was the least mentioned in their preliminary mutterings. One of the grooms from the stable came forward when the driver beckoned to help carry the still unconscious man into the house.

"Take him to the guest room on the second floor. The green one," Christine called after the pair. She was ushered inside with much chatter, her shawl pulled off her shoulders before she knew what was happening. They all gathered around her, expecting explanations, but she had no time to give them. Not that there were any plausible explanations to give. So she pushed through the huddle and began striding down the hall towards the room she had directed her patient to. The maids and other servants followed in her wake, squeaking questions at her.

"But Madame, Madame," one of the cook's helpers cried shrilly, "where is Monsieur le Vicomte?" Christine did not cease in her pursuit, she was far too worried about her teacher's condition.

"He is fetching the doctor. Please, give me room!" She felt more empowered and stronger than she had for a very long time as she thrust her hands up, ordering her devoted servants to take a step back. They were always around. They heard everything, saw everything, knew everything. Her heart had nearly stopped several times in her first month of living here, as they also had the strange ability to appear out of nowhere and offer assistance. She was not used to this multitude of servants. Papa had never had more than one or two, if her memory served correctly, and they felt almost like family members. Not so here. Raoul's wealth and power required an army of servants to maintain both estate and appearances.

She walked past portraits of past members of the de Chagny line, stern men and women who glared down at her through narrowed eyes. Their mouths were all set in thin lines. She wondered if the painter had painted them like this as more a reflection of what would be impressive, as opposed to what they were actually like. The lot of them seemed wholly unfriendly, and when she tried to picture Raoul, with his lovesick grin and eyes that so often betrayed childish delight, up here, blending in with his illustrious ancestors…

She made a sharp left turn that left a few maids skidding down the polished hallway, trying to follow her and failing to turn fast enough. She silently cursed Raoul for being so wealthy, to afford such a huge home. It was beautiful and impressive to be sure, but was highly impractical in terms of mobility. In her mind, it should not take more than fifteen minutes to reach a room in your home. It was no longer a home then. The Opera House had been massive, but the living quarters condensed. It was cramped at times, but she liked to think of it as 'cozy'.

Finally, she pushed open the door to the room she had been seeking and shut it behind her, closing out the flurry of help who, after a few moments of annoyed whispering, dispersed to their own respective places of duty. This was the 'green' guest room. It was painted a pale, mint green, and other shades of the calming color adorned the long drapes and the covers on the four-poster bed at the opposite end. The curtains were mercifully drawn, but even in the poor light, she could see the figure sprawled over the bed.

"Madame," the groom nodded to her slightly, then continued to exit the room. He had only been waiting here until his mistress arrived. It was extremely unnerving to him, standing in the darkened room with the mysterious man. He was eager to leave and return to the stables. At least there he knew what was going on. Christine took hold of his arm to stop him before he left.

"Fetch Rosalie, please."

"Of course." He inclined his head again and was out the door.

Alone once again with the Phantom of the Opera. It didn't bother her. She had spent more time with him than with most other people she knew, whether she could see him or not. And she was seldom accompanied when she was with her teacher. Christine and the Opera Ghost did not need any chaperones, or 'friends' who would only clog up the conversation with useless chatter. Most of her conversing with him was nonverbal, or at least not spoken. They spoke through touch, and through song. Even though she knew it was highly inappropriate, she felt completely comfortable being alone with him, despite all that had transpired between them.

She came closer and sat down on the bed next to him. She brushed the back of her hand across his forehead. It was warm, and she tilted her head with worry and sadness. He was always cool to the touch, as far as she could remember. Then again, perhaps it was only his gloves that were cold against her skin. Or maybe it was because he lived in that damp, chilly place beneath the warm, bustling Opera House. The Opera House…

She had not allowed herself to think about it the whole carriage ride home. She had forced herself to think only of her patient, not of what she had promised to get him. _I will never return here._ Her Opera House, her home, closed to her forever. How could she keep this terrible vow? The Opera was her life, her fire. It would all go out if she was not allowed to return. If he tried to keep her here, she would wither away. But had she not been willing to sacrifice all of it for the sake of her teacher?

She shook her head, ridding herself of such depressing thoughts. She forced herself to think clinically about her patient. She surveyed him, and pursed her lips. She would have to remove his shirt. _A patient. He is only a sick man._ She swallowed hard, and slowly unbuttoned the plain white shirt. It was for his health. She was only behaving as a doctor would. The buttons were undone, and she gently lifted one limp arm and tugged the sleeve away from it, then leaned over him to free its pair.

She leaned back and bit her lip. He was so…she could not say thin, because the muscles he had developed over the years still filled out his form. But it was obvious he had not been eating. He was much thinner than he should have been. So now she was sitting in the dark, alone with a shirtless man who was madly in love with her, despite currently being unconscious. She smiled mournfully down at him. His unearthly pale skin stood out against forest green linens. It happened so suddenly. One moment she was only looking, the next, her fingers were trailing down his chest. It had not been a conscious movement, but she did not stay her rebellious hand.

"You should pray I do not tell the Vicomte of your affections, Madame."

Christine snatched her hand backwards and looked up in surprise. She smiled at the new entry.

"Help me with him, Rosalie."

The maid nodded, and hurried over to the bed to aid Christine in pulling the covers up over the patient. Christine watched Rosalie work and smiled. Rosalie was her personal ladies' maid, who was both servant and confidante. She was, she admitted to Christine unabashedly, a near perfect replica of her mother. The mother that had forced her down to a hopeless station in life. The child of a fishermen and a prostitute, she had been raised in a seedy Parisian neighborhood. It was assumed that she would follow in her mother's less than honorable footsteps when she reached the proper age. However, when her father discovered that his own wife was barren, he had returned to take his daughter home.

Her mother had needed to buy Rosalie's freedom, and, Christine thought with some embarrassment, if the physical similarity was as great as Rosalie claimed, it was not surprising her mother had made enough money to pay for her daughter. She had long hair that varied between black and darkest brown. It was usually put in a demure bun, but when let free, it cascaded in a waterfall of soft waves down her back. She was not tall but she was in possession of a 'desirable figure', a fact Christine did not note without a touch of jealousy, thinking of her own slight body. But the most attractive feature of Rosalie's was more striking than conventionally beautiful. Her eyes were wide and pale, 'moon eyes' she called them, that contrasted brilliantly with her dark hair.

In fact, Christine had more than once thought that Xavier, their butler, who was also head of staff, had perhaps assigned Rosalie to the task of ladies' maid to give her as little contact as possible with Raoul. But she never regretted the assignment for a day. For if Rosalie's appearance was her mother's, her personality was without a doubt her father's. She was cheerful, sarcastic and loud. She had been moderately well behaved when she first began serving Christine. But their friendship had grown and now she took more delight in flustering her mistress with highly inappropriate sayings than in anything else.

"So, Christine, is one attractive and wealthy man no longer enough to satisfy you?" Christine blushed, as Rosalie knew she would.

"He's a friend. He has no where to stay, and I just," she ducked her head, and the other girl placed a caring hand on her shoulder. It would usually be unheard of for such intimacy between mistress and servant, but their relationship was different than most. Christine had been removed from the bustle of what she considered her "extended family" at the Opera. She had hoped to stay in close contact with dear Meg, but Madame Giry had accepted a post as dance mistress at an academy near Brest. They still exchanged letters, but it was far too great a distance to really remain close. The void she had felt simply could not be filled by Raoul, no matter how hard he tried. And he certainly tried.

It made her ache in those days, knowing how very hard Raoul was trying to make her feel at home. He did everything he could to please her. He took her on trips, and they visited his many friends in their massive manors. And he never knew that she would have been far happier remaining in Paris. She hadn't told him. She had meant to, several times. But whenever she would work up her nerve to tell him she was not enjoying herself, he would look at her with round, hopeful eyes. So she would tell him she was having a lovely time, because she couldn't bear to see his face fall with disappointment. All she really wanted was to be grounded in one place, and to have a friend. Raoul wanted to be her friend, but he was her husband. While a husband is often the greatest friend a woman has, she needs to have other friends, female friends. All Christine wanted were friends who understand her aggravation, who she did not have to strive to please and impress. She was certain she would never find even one such friend now that Meg and the other ballet rats were scattered.

Then Xavier presented Rosalie to her. Her attention was drawn immediately to the eyes. Those terrifically strange eyes, so out of place yet so intoxicating. 'A maid, to help you dress.' That's what Xavier said, looking down his long nose at the two women. He always behaved like that when he felt he should be impressive. He was really a dear, sweet man underneath the slick exterior. And Rosalie curtsied, bowing her head. 'If it pleases you.' Christine had not cared in the slightest. _Another maid to get underfoot,_ she though cynically, though her face remained blank. She had agreed without much emotion, as she knew Raoul had certainly ordered Xavier to find her a ladies' maid, and the poor butler would not have a moment's peace until she accepted one. Before she left the room, her eyes met once more with her new maid's. And she had the strangest feeling that this maid would be different.

Her premonition proved itself correct, and tenfold. Rosalie was much more than just a girl who tightened her corsets and brushed her hair. She was truly a dear friend, who Christine would have hated to lose. She was also, in a tragic way, the perfect ladies' maid. There was no worry she would ever marry and abandon her post. For no matter her charm or even the wealth she could attain through servitude…a whore's daughter was considered little more than a whore herself. And no man would marry a whore.

"So," Rosalie removed her hand, breaking Christine's reverie. "What is the name of this dear friend?"

Christine opened her mouth, then froze. She had never realized it before, now it slapped her in the face. Her teacher, father figure, her Angel of Music, her captor…she did not know his name. He knew all about her, and she had never even asked him for his given name. It had never seemed odd before now. She had always just called him 'Angel', 'Master', and, in the later days, 'Phantom'. She did not know what his mother had called him, and that thought made her ache. How could she claim to care for this man, whose identity was no clearer to her now, than it ever had been? She couldn't admit to the household she was unaware of their guest's name. But what name could she give? She did not want to invent a name that he would dispute once he awoke, shattering her story.

"Monsieur Fântome," she said quickly, before she had fully understood her own thoughts. Rosalie bit her lip to contain her laughter.

"Aha," she said with a knowing smile, "a gentlemanly lover is he, whose name we cannot speak?"

"No!" Christine blushed a bright pink. "No, Rosalie, it's nothing like-"

"Do not worry, my fair mistress," the maid inclined her head dramatically, "I shall not tell your missing husband that your love no longer belongs to him alone."

"Rosalie, don't you dare-"

"If, in fact," Rosalie bowed her head, shaking it in mock sadness, "Monsieur le Vicomte is even still alive."

"Rosalie," Christine cried, pushing back some curls that had escaped during the trip home, "you will be the death of me." The maid in question just smiled cheerfully at her.

"I do my best, Madame, always my best."

The conversation might have continued as such for longer, but Raoul burst dramatically through the door, a very haggard looking doctor in tow.

"Christine!" He ran and embraced his wife, as though he had not seen her in years, rather than hours. Christine felt, for the first time, uncomfortable with his shameless affection. The doctor was eyeing them with an unfriendly look on his face. Christine felt certain he had not wanted to come, and only a large amount of "convincement" from Raoul had summoned him.

"If I may," he said with a small scowl, brushing past the embracing couple and Rosalie, who had wiped the devilish grin off her face as soon as her master entered. Raoul followed the doctor's movement to the patient and, without a doubt, noted the sudden absence of a shirt. Christine winced slightly. Questions about that would have to wait however, as Raoul stared at her in shock. He looked at her as though he had never really seen her before.

"Christine!" He cried in horror, "You are not dressed!"

Confused, Christine looked down at herself. True, there was a strip missing from her petticoat, and her dress was a tad worse for wear after the trip to the cellars, but she was certainly clothed. Raoul saw her confusion and elaborated quickly.

"The dinner, Christine! The dinner!"

"Oh," Christine allowed a pale hand to fly to her mouth in shock. The dinner, of course. For weeks Raoul had set the servants to planning this meal. The Baroness de Lyon and her two sons would be visiting the de Chagny estate for the first time since her husband died. It was also the first time she would meet Christine, who was expected to be a radiant and polished jewel of a hostess. She should have started preparations hours ago, according to custom. However, with all the excitement, she had completely forgotten.

"Come Madame, it will take but a moment if my fingers fly," Rosalie curtsied deeply, more for the doctor's benefit than anyone else in the room. Christine nodded and hurried out of the room, Rosalie behind. She walked quickly, but elegantly until the door closed. Then, she took off at a near run down the hall towards her quarters. She couldn't go very fast, due to her delicate slippers and thick skirts. Rosalie, however, being free of most protocol in this situation, and clad in a simple servant's dress, pulled her skirts scandalously upward and sprinted ahead of her mistress. She needed to get to the room first, and could start pulling out dresses and jewels to dress Christine in.

Christine's breathing was heavy, but she kept going. Bitterly, she thought of how she and Rosalie often joked that there should be carriages in the halls, to transport you between rooms. It now, more than ever, seemed like a very good idea. She should mention it to Raoul, though she knew he would be aghast at such a suggestion. In a few minutes, she reached her room, panting. She had no time to stop however. She entered, and immediately Rosalie was upon her, undoing her dress.

"This one time," the maid hissed under her breath as she worked feverishly, "we will cheat." Instead of completely stripping Christine of her garments, and starting over, Rosalie did not remove the corset or stockings. She merely tightened the corset, so Christine gasped, trying to both regain oxygen she had lost during her run and breathe through the tightness. She went through the motions at least at double speed, barely even paying attention to what was happening around her.

"Simple and elegant," Rosalie said from behind a mouthful of decorative combs for Christine's hair. She had selected a gown that did not need an elaborate hairstyle to complete the ensemble, to save time. With her skill and experience, before Christine knew what had happened, Rosalie was clasping a necklace around her neck. She stepped back and smiled. "Truly lovely, Christine. Madame le Baronne will be impressed."

Though she trusted Rosalie's skill and judgment, Christine still gazed upon her reflection critically. The gown was a pale blue, with full skirts. There was silver lace around her sleeves and square neckline, as well as silver embroidery on the bodice. It complimented the paleness her skin still held, and she smiled. Her hair had been swept away from her face with ornate combs, but some curls stilled trailed down over her shoulders. Rosalie had painted her lips a delicate pink that did not overpower her face, as most cosmetic colors did. She had also added depth to her eyes with some neutral toned shadow. The run, Christine thought with a small smile, made her cheeks a pleasant pink as the full flush faded. To finish the outfit, Rosalie had selected a simple necklace, a single teardrop diamond hanging on a silver chain, as well as a few diamond bracelets.

"Thank you, Rosalie. I look like…" she would have bitten her lip, had she not been avoiding marring the perfect color and shape Rosalie had created. She had been about to say "a noblewoman". But she was a noblewoman now. This was how she must always look, to maintain her husband's reputation. It was, she thought suddenly, a strange life to live. To always be a perfect doll, who always speaks the correct pleasantry to the correct people, who never acts in any unexpected way. It was as though her whole life had become a strange opera. She must always be in character, and in costume.

"Never mind it now, Madame. You may extol my virtues after you have suitably entertained Madame le Baronne." In a very scandalous motion for a servant, Rosalie waved her hands, effectively shooing Christine from the room. The Countess did not argue, but left the room quickly. Though she was physically prepared, there was much still to think of and do before the Baroness arrived.

**"It is, of course, a dreadful shame,"** Baroness Madeleine de Lyon said, taking a sip from her wine glass. "But there is nothing that can be done."

Raoul hastened to agree with her, and Christine did her best to keep her expression blankly pleasant. She felt so drained, sitting her and trying to continually smile, though Madame de Lyon grated on her nerves. The Baroness was a tall, and very thin, woman with blonde hair that was stiffly coiffed. She was covered in jewels and draped with finery, and upon seeing her, Christine had felt very much a child attempting to pass for a lady. Baroness Madeleine was also a queen of high society, and her smiles were always tainted with some other emotion. Christine did not like her one bit. But as Countess, she was expected to entertain and admire this unpleasant woman.

Her sons had been quiet throughout the evening. Little Jacques, who was only four, had perfect table manners. He had wispy blonde hair like his mother, and deep blue-green eyes. But his slightly round little face was solemn, and it made Christine very sad to see a young child already stiffened by society. The elder son was probably Christine's age, or maybe a year or two younger. Jean-Luc was named after his father who he apparently greatly resembled, with smooth auburn colored hair and deep hazel eyes. He too was silent, but Christine was sure she saw derisive smiles leaking through his well-mannered mask a few times during dinner. He was an attractive young man, and she was certain he was well aware of the fact.

"Christine?" She turned quickly to look at Raoul who was smiling expectantly. "Perhaps you would care to show Jean-Luc and Jacques the library?"

"Oh, of course." Christine stood, not bothering to stifle her dancer's grace, and her skirts swept out behind her. Jean-Luc rose fluidly upwards as well, and Jacques slid as gracefully as possible off his chair. She led them out of the room, where Raoul and Madeleine continued their conversations. Despite feeling a bit annoyed at being shunted out of the room as one of the "children", Christine resolved to be sincerely pleasant to the young boys. It was not their fault how they had been taught to behave. She smiled a little to herself when she realized she had put Jean-Luc in the same category as his brother, when he was almost as old as her.

They had reached the library, and she pulled the thick door open and allowed her guests to go in first. They did, and she followed, closing the door gently behind her. The library was truly a beautiful place. The ceiling was high, and those who looked all the way to the top would see a beautiful painting, commissioned by a de Chagny countless years ago. _Raoul would know who_, Christine thought to herself, admiring the colors, _I must ask him about it._ There was shelf after shelf filled with books, and Christine had not yet read even the spine of all of them, though she often spent rainy afternoons here. Most of the books were dusty; they did not get much use. She supposed it was really more of an issue of appearance. Like everything to do with wealth and influence.

"I like books." She looked down unexpectedly at young Jacques, whose eyes had lit up the moment he saw all the leather-bound volumes. Christine smiled and knelt to his eyelevel.

"Would you like to find a book to read?" He nodded. Her smile brightened. She loved children. They were so sweet and adorable. "Come, we'll find something for you." She held out her slim hand, which he took with his youthfully pudgy one. She glanced back at Jean-Luc and gave him a small smile. "Would you like to find a book too?"

He arched his eyebrows at her and shook his head. She shrugged off his disinterest, and led Jacques towards the shelves. She released his hand as he began running his short fingers along the spines, reading the titles excitedly.

"Maman doesn't like you," Jean-Luc said off-handedly, as though stating the weather. He leaned against a desk along the wall and waited for her response. Christine tensed, but she forced her voice to remain steady and unaffected.

"Oh? Why do you say that?"

"She said so," he replied with a shrug. Christine left Jacques to his hunt and emerged from the stacks to face the other brother. His legs were crossed in front of him and he grinned at her.

"What do you mean?" She asked, hating herself for asking, but needing to know. It was clearly the effect Jean-Luc had been hoping for because his smirk intensified.

"She said you were 'an Opera House harlot who was scooped out of her debauchery by a deeply stupid man blinded by her wicked charms'." Christine gaped at him. Could Baroness Madeleine truly think such a thing? But why would Jean-Luc lie about it? Why indeed…

"I'm terribly sorry she feels that way," Christine responded neutrally, recognizing the need for etiquette in such a hazardous situation. Any impolite words would no doubt be given directly back to the mother, which would be disastrous for the de Chagny reputation. Jean-Luc looked at her in surprise.

"You're not going to deny it?"

"It is not the truth, but I words cannot change someone's heart. I will simply have to show Madame le Baronne my courtesy, and hope she will see the truth in time." Jean-Luc, Christine noted, looked far less attractive with his mouth agape. He closed it momentarily before slyly asking another question.

"Come now, Madame, surely you had many…admirers, being a prima donna." Christine smiled.

"I was only prima donna for a very short time. As for admirers, I must admit my dressing room was flooded with flowers. But I only ever met with one of them." Jean-Luc's eyes flashed with anticipation. "And that was Raoul." His face fell, denied the excitement he had been hoping for.

"For a virtue-less mistress of the night," he said with a rueful smile, "you are rather dull, I must admit." Christine laughed at that. It was very true, and shockingly wrong all at once. Her life had been far more of a whirlwind than anyone else could possibly imagine. However, for all that had happened, she herself was not a remarkably fascinating person. She was still very much Gustav Daaé's little girl. The maddening events of years past had not driven her insane, so she had remained the same.

"I'm sorry to have not entertained you, but I am only what I am," she said with a smile, "and I am only Christine." Jean-Luc's returning smile was friendly, but then it took on another dimension. One Christine was not sure she liked. He came forward slowly.

"Maman may not like you," he whispered, then gently stroked her hair, "but I do."

He gazed down at her, and her discomfort swelled. Before she could say anything, however, the door swung open. Jean-Luc immediately took a large step backwards at the same time as turning around. Raoul stood, still grasping the door, and smiling.

"It's time to go, boys."

Jean-Luc nodded, and Jacques emerged from behind a shelf, clutching a book. He looked up at Christine, clearly worried.

"I did not finish," he said softly, with a slight lisp. Christine smiled, despite the twisting in her stomach, and patted his shoulder.

"Take it with you. You can bring it back when we see each other again." He smiled broadly and squeezed the book to his chest.

"Au revoir, Madame," he said politely, and toddled off towards the door.

"Au revoir, Jacques. Au revoir, Jean-Luc," she added the second sentence with obvious tension. The young man only grinned at her wolfishly.

"Au revoir, Madame," he bowed his head mockingly, and the two were gone out the door. Christine leaned up against a shelf, feeling a tad faint. Raoul smiled at her.

"That was a lovely evening, wasn't it?"

**Author's Note: Thank you for all the kind words! I know this took a while, but I'm doing my best to continue the story at a nice pace and length. I hope you enjoyed this installment. Concrit will be squee-ed for, and if anyone would be interested in beta-ing for me, I would greatly appreciate it.**

**Tamelia: **Thanks…dude. Heh heh. I know what you mean about Raoul. I don't like him particularly much, but that's just 'cause he gets in the way of EC. He's an actual person, and I'm gonna do my best to show him as such. He really does care about her and everything.

**Emmanuelle Grey:** You reviewed, so I can put my pretzel stick away. . Glad you like it…you doubt whether it's EC or not? I must not be doing a good enough job with the sexual tension. Shame on me.

**xAdenX:** I hear you with the story alert thing. All too true for me. Yay, you like! Compliments make me feel warm and cuddly inside.

**Vicangel**: Props to you, first reviewer! (I'm so not able to say the word 'props' without looking like an idiot, so I use every opportunity to type it.) Glad you like.


	3. Care

Hymn Angelic does not own any characters, places, phrases, etc. from 'The Phantom of the Opera'.

Chapter 3:

'Care'

**Sleep came quickly to Christine.** She was thoroughly exhausted by the turmoil of the day. It was hard to believe that the uncomfortable encounter with Jean-Luc, the dinner with the Baroness, and the trip to the Opera House had all occurred within less than twenty-four hours. As soon as she reached the quarters she shared with Raoul, Rosalie had helped her strip out of her elaborate outfit and into a simple shift. Sensing the strain the day had had on her mistress, the maid had not asked for any details. She had contented herself with the knowledge Christine would be sure to share in the morning. Christine was extremely grateful for this courtesy, and was under the covers before Raoul even reached the second floor.

Her husband had changed into his own nightwear in a separate room. He entered silently, knowing by the darkened lamps that his wife had already retired. He had slipped beneath the linens, and leaned over for a good-night kiss. However, his simple and affectionate gesture was not returned. Because she was already fast asleep.

Though her sleep was sudden, it offered her no solace. It was light and tumultuous, and dreams invaded on what she had hoped would be a quiet night of rest.

_Flames loomed over her, ropes lashed at her sides and she could not tell which was to turn to escape the terror. The Phantom of the Opera stood in front of her, his hideous face revealed, and he reached out to her. As she stared down at his hand in perverse fascination, it slowly began to melt away until only glistening bones remained. White bones. White mask. She was grabbed from behind and she scratched viciously at her attacker before she stared up in horror to discover it was none other than Raoul. Blood gurgled forth from his mouth and she screamed and tried to flee as his corpse fell to the ground. She ran straight into the Phantom, who wrapped his vice-like arms around her._

"_You are a murderer. You are mine. You are me."_

"_No," she sobbed, wishing to struggle, wishing to fight, but finding herself powerless. The Phantom buried his face in her hair and she could not fend him off. She didn't want to. God, she didn't want to._

"_I will love you forever, my angel," he pulled away, and she could see blood pouring out of his mouth, just as it had come from Raoul's. "Angel…" his voice trailed off into another gurgle, and he staggered, strength gone. But he did not release her as he toppled over, into the lake. His heavy body weighted her down as she gasped, breathing in water instead of air. She was sinking, faster and faster, unable to break out of his death-grip. She shook her head violently, trying to free herself, trying to find oxygen somehow. At last his arms drifted apart and she swam to the surface._

_She gasped as she returned to the air, and climbed out of the lake, sending droplets sputtering all across the lair. She breathed heavily and rubbed her arms, where his skeletal hands had left marks. When she looked up, she spotted Raoul, alive and unharmed. He smiled at her, and she ran to him in relief._

"_Oh, I was so worried!" She kissed him, taking relief in his returning kiss. But when she pulled away, it was Jean-Luc who she saw, leering down at her._

"_I knew I was right about you," he chuckled, and she whipped around to see both Raoul and the Phantom staring at her in hurt disbelief._

"_Lotte…" Raoul murmured, at the same time the other man whispered "Angel". They both began to fade, and she was frozen, not sure which one to run for, which one to grab onto. Jean-Luc just stood behind her and laughed heartlessly as she tried to decide who she should embrace. Finally, she sprinted towards Raoul, arms held outward, ready to enfold him. But the moment she reached him, he was gone, and she once more tumbled into the icy lake._

She was cold. So cold. As her eyes fluttered open, Christine shivered. Why was she so cold? The blankets were still wrapped around her, so what warmth was she missing? She realized it when she fully awoke. It was Raoul. He usually slept with his arms tight around her, but now, he was curled on the other side of the bed. Nothing important, nothing meaningful, just the position he had moved to during sleep. She knew she shouldn't feel so uneasy, but after the unsettling dream, the lack of his presence seemed ominous. She shivered again, remembering the dream. A mix of everything, every man, she had been fretting about during the day. It was a most exhausting dream emotionally, and she felt nearly as tired as when she had gotten into bed.

However, she forced herself to sit up and she slipped quietly out of bed. Raoul grumbled something in his sleep about his horses, but he did not awaken. Christine walked over to the armoire in the corner and pulled on a thick robe. She slid her feet into slippers and walked to the door, feeling much warmer already, but still cold and sick inside. She turned the doorknob slowly, and pulled the door open with aching smoothness to prevent any noise that would disturb her husband. She slipped between the door and the frame, then shut it carefully. She pressed her ear gently to the door again, listening closely for movement. There was none.

Pulling her robe tighter, Christine set off down the hall. It was early in the morning, and the coming daylight was still hazy. Servants were starting to prepare the house for the day, and they were startled to see her up. Many came over to offer her assistance, but she dismissed them calmly. She rubbed her arms absentmindedly as she walked, still feeling icy inside. She was beginning to feel guilty about leaving Raoul in bed. He would wake up soon, and be worried about where she had gone. There was no reason why she couldn't have waited for him. Except that she couldn't. She simply couldn't. She had to go now.

Finally, she reached the door to the guest room currently occupied by the Phantom of the Opera. Repeating the action from outside her own room, she leaned softly against the door and listened. This time, she heard the unmistakable sound of someone moving through the room. Her eyes widened, and she had to stifle a gasp with her hand. He was awake already. He had looked so frail and sick before, how could he have healed so quickly? Perhaps he hadn't really been sick. Perhaps he was just superhuman, able to resist all disease. She wasn't sure, and she wouldn't know until she opened the door. He could still be sick, stumbling around the room in a hallucinatory haze. But, she listened closer, the footsteps from inside were not faltering. They were strong and sure. She wouldn't know what was happening until she opened the door.

It was amazing how so simple an act became so difficult. Her hand rested on, and gently caressed the doorknob. She didn't know what he would do when he saw her. He hadn't wanted her to be there, back at the Opera House. He could be angry now, pacing the room, just waiting for her to enter. There was nothing that displeased him more than when she defied him. He hated to lose control. She had seen him at his weakest, and he would no doubt punish her for that. The only question was, what would her punishment be? She had always been sure that he would never hurt her physically, but with the circumstances changed, who knew? She might be dragged back underground, never to surface, never to see Raoul again.

But maybe he wasn't angry. Maybe he was glad she had rescued him. After all, he would have died had she left him. And no one wanted to die. Maybe he was hurt and confused at waking up in a strange place. He might not even remember seeing her. She would enter the room, and he would look on her with lost eyes. But as soon as he saw her face, they would flicker with thankful light. He would embrace her and things would be as they once were. She shook her head at that thought, blushing although no one was there. A shameful thought. Things had changed. She was married now, and she could not be affectionate with a man who was not her husband. And he was certainly not her husband. She felt a stab at that thought. He had wanted to be her husband. He had wanted her to stay with him forever, but she feared all-encompassing darkness and couldn't stay.

She lay her free hand against the smooth wood of the door and sighed. What was there to do? She had to go in. Guessing and supposing would do her no good. She had to open the door, something she had done countless times, and enter the room. She would be stately and elegant. She wouldn't let him know that her insides were in turmoil. She wouldn't let him see the conflict in her eyes. She would be Countess Christine de Chagny: cool, unattached, polite. He would have no choice but to respect her here, in her world. She had spent all her time in his world, his Opera, where he was in control. But this world belonged to Raoul and Christine, and she would not let him intimidate her here. She was mistress of this house, and he was nothing more than a shadow. He was, she thought to herself, steeling herself, never anything more than a shadow. She knew that was horribly untrue, but she would not admit it to herself. She had to believe she was stronger here and now. She had to convince herself that she would not crumple and go sobbing into his arms as soon as he held them out to her. That if he told her to sing, she would not sing until the heavens wept. That she had some modicum of control and choice when it came to the mysterious Opera Ghost.

Determined and courageous, she turned the knob without another thought and pushed open the door. The room was still dark, the curtains still drawn. She squinted through the darkness, trying to find him, knowing it was useless. Darkness was his element, and he controlled it like no other. She walked forward slowly, keeping herself erect, head held high. She would not come submissively like a disobedient dog returning to it's master. She scanned the walls, looking for a shadow that did not quite lie flat. There was no sign of him. Had he escaped? She looked immediately to the window. The curtains were still; it had not been broken. She glanced at the door at the side of the room. It was partially hidden by a curtain. She couldn't imagine he would find it so quickly. She was extremely confused, and she took another step forward. Her gaze fell on the bed.

He was lying exactly where she had left him. It looked as though he had not budged since she lay him down there. A frown wrinkled her forehead and she walked to the bed. But how? She sat down on the bed and lay the back of her hand across his forehead. Warm. Feverish, she supposed. How was this possible?

"Christine?"

"Oh!" She squeaked in surprise at the voice behind her, and she turned her head quickly. Rosalie stood in the doorway, holding a pile of blankets, and looking very confused.

"What are you doing here?" Both women asked simultaneously. Rosalie grinned.

"I thought Monsieur Fântome could use some more blankets. He's clammy." Christine sighed. So it had been Rosalie walking around the room. Both relief and disappointment swept through her. A sudden thought occurred to her, and she looked seriously at her maid.

"Rosalie, I know you are only fulfilling your duty, but please, this is very important. Never enter this room without my express permission, and _never_," she paused to make sure the generally jovial girl was understanding the seriousness of this, "_never_ touch the mask."

"Of course," Rosalie said, sounding confused. "Whatever you wish, Christine. But-"

"Please," Christine shook her head, "do not ask me why." She didn't have the strength to tell the story, and she respected his privacy. He would share whatever he chose whenever he awakened. And besides, she couldn't stand the thought of Rosalie's expression when she looked at him, knowing who he was, what he had done. She couldn't imagine the maid caring much about whether or not the man was 'clammy' after that, though Rosalie was a kind person. Rosalie looked at Christine, slightly wounded that she was not sharing. Christine wanted to console her, let her know that it was nothing to do with her and all to do with him, but Rosalie shook it off in a few moments.

"Shall I spread the word through the staff?"

"Oh," Christine couldn't believe she hadn't thought of that. "Yes, please. Thank you so much, Rosalie."

"Only doing my duty," Rosalie smiled. "Why don't you head downstairs? I believe Sophia has started the ovens." Christine smiled to herself, for the first time that morning, at the thought of Sophia's delicious cooking.

"I will stop and see if Raoul is ready to eat," she decided aloud, then smiled again at Rosalie. "Thank you."

"Stop thanking me," Rosalie mock-scolded, "and go eat. You're won't be able to keep Raoul's attentions, much less juggle them with the mysterious Monsieur Fântome's, if you waste away." Christine blushed at the thought of juggling affections, but obeyed Rosalie's order and left the room. Rosalie watched her mistress depart, then sighed to herself. She set about the task she had reentered the room for in the first place, and lay the blankets over the still man. She also prepared a compress the doctor had recommended on the bedside table, and lay it on his forehead. She would check back later this afternoon. Her hand lingered after she released the compress. What could it hurt, to peek under the mask? If Christine could not summon a reason why not to, surely it could not be such a terrible thing to do. But she stayed her hand before her fingers grazed the white leather. She was thinking above her station. Christine was kind to her, and made her feel more like friend than maid. It was times like this, however, that she thought perhaps it was not such a wonderful thing.

No matter how Christine treated her, she was still a maid. She was paid to follow her mistress's orders, and to think casually of defying them? It was one thing to joke and tease, and she did love nothing more than seeing Christine's delicately pale cheeks flush with rosy embarrassment. But disobeying a direct order would land her no where but back on the filthy streets of the city. Her father was dead now, and her adopted mother would have nothing to do with her. They had maintained a cordial relationship when she was young, but now that she was older, they had their understanding. Rosalie knew that she was truly her father's child, and it was made clear to her that her adopted mother knew this as well. She really couldn't blame the older woman for despising her, she supposed. To live everyday, raising the product of your husband's extramarital romance? It must have been painful.

Rosalie turned away from the bed and exited the room without looking back. There was no good to be found in there. She had work to do, and an order to distribute. The rest of the staff would not be pleased, she supposed. She knew that many other maids were jealous of her friendship with Christine. They thought it unfair that a girl born without a surname would rise to higher favor than themselves. The friendlier members of the de Chagny household staff, especially those who had worked for the family longest, were pleased that Christine was brightening. Several of them had heard Raoul's tales of the beautiful songbird he loved. Though his accounts were doubtlessly exaggerated, they had expected a radiant angel when he brought home his bride. What they received was a worn, haggard little waif who stared out at the world through hollow, fearful eyes.

According to Xavier who, despite appearances, was quite the gossip, Christine barely spoke, and spent most days sitting in her room and staring out the window. She seemed terrified of something. And though he would never admit it, they could tell Raoul was just as frightened. They knew that some misfortune had befallen the Opera the night they left, and decided she must have just been shaken at the loss of her home, and Raoul worried about her. He tried everything to make her happy but nothing worked, or so Xavier said. She was wasting away in the midst of splendor most girls could never hope for. But then, the matronly cook Sophia would tell Rosalie, stroking her hair, you came along.

To this day, Rosalie wasn't sure why she had been hired. She had no references, few skills, and certainly didn't seem like a very good maid. She had failed to be hired by several manors previously. It was, she was sure, because of her mother. However, it never occurred to her to lie about her parentage. She was honest and hard-working, and if she couldn't get a job with the truth, it wasn't a job she wanted. So she didn't have much hope when she entered the de Chagny estate. Xavier was everything expected in a butler. She despised him. His nose seemed pointed permanently upwards, and he barely looked at her. Today, she couldn't believe the transformation he went through shifting in and out of his "butler" persona. But back then, she saw him as nothing more than an overstuffed peacock, inflated no doubt by spoiled aristocrats. Her opinion didn't change much when, to her surprise, she was presented to 'the lady of the house'. Christine de Chagny was obviously an aloof little china doll who wouldn't recognize hardship if it stamped on her delicate little foot. She accepted Rosalie as her maid, against all odds, and when she made eye contact, Rosalie felt things might develop differently than she had first thought. She was right.

By this time, she had reached the kitchen, where Sophia was commanding a busy army of assistants preparing breakfast, as well as making preparations for the rest of the day's meals.

"Rosalie," Sophia smiled, face creasing into familiar lines. "What are you doing down here? Don't you have a patient to tend to?" Rosalie returned the smile. Sophia was very easy to get along with, and generally cheered up anyone in the vicinity.

"That's why I'm here. Madame le Vicomtess," she always used Christine's title when out of her presence, "wished me to deliver a message."

Immediately, all work seemed to halt, and expectant faces turned towards her, many covered in baking flour. She considered how to phrase Christine's order, then decided to use most of her original words, to remove confusion.

"No one is to enter Monsieur Fântome's room without her permission, and no one is ever to touch his mask."

"Why does he wear that mask?" A young stableboy who had snuck into the kitchen hoping to filch some pastry asked curiously. Rosalie shook her head.

"She did not say."

The kitchen dissolved once more into a flurry of activity, the questioning stableboy was thrown out at once by a laughing, but firm, Sophia. Work seemed to continue as normal, but as Rosalie passed through, she heard from all sides talk about Madame and Monsieur de Chagny's strange guest.

"I have heard," a girl with her arms buried in dough said to her neighbor, who was slicing fruit, "that he was an admirer of hers at the Opera."

"He tried to kill himself," another girl whispered as she placed a loaf of bread into the ovens, "when she spurned his affections."

"Everyone who has removed his mask," a third hissed across an old wooden table, "has gone insane, or died!"

Rosalie simply rolled her eyes and continued on. Gossip. She liked to share stories as much as any of the other girls, but what they were saying was simply insane. Christine would have mentioned anything so exciting about her life. She wondered for a moment why it was that Monsieur Fântome was masked. To hide his true identity? But if he was recognizable, the mask should have covered his entire face. It didn't. She sighed. Nothing was making sense this past day at the de Chagny household. And she was caught right in the middle of it.

**Christine disappeared after breakfast.** The staff, as well as her husband, had no idea where she had gone. They began checking rooms, and it wasn't long before they found her. She refused to leave the guest room, insisting that she had to care for her patient. Raoul was, unsurprisingly, none too pleased about that. However, even he could not convince her to budge from her designated place on the side of the bed. She did not emerge for meals, despite Sophia's enticing dishes, choosing instead to accept only a small platter of fruit that she could eat while she cared for him.

She worked diligently all day. She changed the compress regularly, and she sponged his face and neck with a cool cloth. He didn't even twitch the entire time she sat by his side. It filled her with worry, his motionless state. Why would he not move? He didn't respond to anything. Her only consolation was that when she pressed a glass of water against his lips and poured it gently, she saw him swallow weakly. That meant he was alive, possibly even semi-conscious. It was her victory of the day, and, in case he really was awake inside, she hummed quietly to him. She had wanted at first to sing, but thought better of it. Who could say what would happen if he heard her singing again? It never seemed to turn out well when she sang for him.

She knew the entire staff thought she was going mad. She wasn't entirely sure she wasn't. Why was she sitting here, feverishly tending to a man who almost destroyed her? She thought for a while that he had destroyed her. Nothing made her happy, nothing made her feel like she once had. She was so tired all the time, unable to summon any energy for the emotions that had once filled her soul. It was better now. She was healing. A thought suddenly occurred to her, one that almost made her drop the compress. Whenever she was at her weakest, he always seemed strong and powerful. Now she was regaining strength…could it be possible she was draining his strength away from him? Was his immobility her fault? She banished the thought from her mind quickly. That was nonsense. She bit her lip softly. Just as ghosts and a phantom residing in an opera house was nonsense.

It all made no sense at all, really. A little girl who believed she was visited by an angel? A man who was more specter than mortal? Two childhood sweethearts suddenly reunited the very night one of them was whisked away to a world outside of reality? That place, a cavernous expanse in the cellars of the Opera, where night never ended and the real world was denied? A mad genius, with a burning passion and obsession for music, and the girl who he felt embodied it? That this girl would choose to stay with the devil, to let her love go free, only to see him collapse in tears and order her to go? None of it could be real. None of it could have actually happened to her. So why was she sitting here, with her master and phantom, squeezing his hand in a silent plea.

In a moment, the emotion was too much for her. She couldn't contain it, and she began to sob, first silently, then loudly. Her entire body shook with the power of her weeping, tears streaming down her face. Why did she have to stand this trial again? Why was she tormented like this? Why couldn't she have a normal life? Why were things so confusing? _Why?_

The door flew open and Raoul entered, breathless.

"Christine, what's wrong? What did he do? Did he hurt you?" Christine bit her lip again, striving valiantly to rein in her unbridled emotions.

"He…he…he," she failed, and a fresh torrent of tears poured forth as she wailed. "He won't wake up!" Raoul shook his head in disbelief. He had run all the way here, hearing her racking sobs in his study, certain that something terrible had happened to her. And here he found her, distraught that this monstrous man was not awake. Personally, he was immensely thankful. Everyday the Phantom did not wake up was another day to increase his hope that the Phantom would _never_ wake up. He couldn't understand Christine's obsession with helping the man who had tried to destroy their lives, and almost succeeded! He supposed she was just so kind-hearted, she couldn't stand to see anyone in trouble, no matter what that 'someone' might have done to them in the past. He steeled himself and sat down, only inches from the demon, and wrapped his arms around his wife.

"It's all right, Christine. Things will be fine. We've done all we can." Christine clung to him, and sobbed even harder, if that was possible. He rubbed her back soothingly.

"But why won't he wake up? I'm doing ev-ev" she stuttered as she sniffed and gasped for air, "everything I can think of. And it's not helping!" She buried her face in his chest, clenching his shirt so hard her knuckles turned white.

"Christine, Christine," he leaned back and lifted her chin gently, and looked into her normally clear eyes, now cloudy with tears and surrounded by vicious red tearstains, "If it's meant to be, it will happen. You're working so hard, and I'm proud of you. But you cannot stop living to try and give him life. He wanted you to live, Lotte." Christine sniffled and nodded. She knew he was right. She had been given a second chance at life, and now she was "wasting" it. But still…

"Thank you, Raoul," she wiped her eyes with the handkerchief he offered her, and inhaled deeply. He was still looking at her as though she might shatter, and she smiled slightly. "I'm not going to cry anymore. Don't worry about me. I'm fine now."

"Are you," Raoul rose and paused, not wanting to set her off again. "Are you coming to dinner?" Christine considered it. She shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Raoul, but…I can't leave him. He gave me this new life, the least I can do is to do the same for him."

Raoul looked down at her, the pain obvious in his eyes. Christine had to look away.

"I'll ask Sophia to send something up for you," he turned from her, and her eyes snapped back to where his had been a moment before, hoping to communicate. But it was only his back now.

"Raoul? I love you," she whispered, sounding lost and frightened. Raoul paused in the doorway.

"I love you too, Lotte." In an instant, the door was swinging shut, and he was gone. Christine looked at the wooden barrier between herself, this room, and the rest of the world. All she had to do was push it aside, and reenter the world she knew. Where her husband was waiting for her. All she had to do was stand up, and walk away. It was not difficult. It wouldn't be hard. But even as she thought this, she knew the truth.

It would not be difficult to leave…but it was impossible.

**So ends chapter 3. I hope you all enjoyed it! I tried to get back a little more to the more introspective style of the first chapter. Like it? No? Concrit? Also: Beta-ing? Any takers? Any at all? This chapter went in a bit of a different direction than I thought it would. I really didn't think I was going to be able to talk about Rosalie for more than a couple paragraphs and, lo and behold, she really dominated the chapter. Bad Rosalie, taking over the fic like that! I'll tell Raoul to give her a pay cut. Well, I'm off to work on the next chapter: 'Awakening'. Ooh…can you guess what it's about? Ha ha. Thanks a ton for reading (and reviewing!) Love you all very much.**

**Vicangel: **You're just on the ball with the reviewing, aren't ya? Glad you like…so, mad props again! (I adore saying props, and if you don't think it sounds stupid, I shall say it to you as much as possible)

**Terpintine Mind: **Thanks…I'll keep my eye on the descriptors and work on that in the future.

**Emmanuelle Grey: **Heh…just to lay your mind to rest, honey: 'Staring Into the Abyss' is 100, pure, unabashed EC. It is not, however pure fluff. At least it's not supposed to be.

**Tamelia: **Jean-Luc is becoming popular. Loveable little man-whore. The camera will travel a bit when other characters become more entangled in the plot, but it will generally be on Christine I think. I like focusing on Erik, but the poor dear is unconscious at the moment, so it wouldn't be particularly interesting . Of course, it sort of drifted to Rosalie this time, which I didn't exactly plan.

**Chocolate Covered Icicles: **I'm glad you like it! Hope you hang around and keep reading.

**Feri-san: **I love compliments. You rock. Jean-Luc is just the most popular guy ever, isn't he? I'm glad you like my OCs…I tried very hard to make them interesting and realistic and not just throwaways. Jacques is definitely teh cute.

**AMaskofanAngel: **Poor oblivious Raoul. Sigh. I'm glad you like it! Thank you very much, and I'll do my best to preserve the high-quality of the fic.


	4. Awakening

Hymn Angelic does not own any characters, places, phrases, etc. from 'The Phantom of the Opera'.

Chapter 4:

'Awakening'

**Rosalie pushed the door open silently.** She slipped into the dark room, not bothering to shut the door behind her. She wanted to be able to get out of here as quickly as possible. She shouldn't be here. She knew she shouldn't. But when she had looked in this morning, Christine was sleeping so peacefully. She knew that her friend had been having difficulty sleeping lately, so now that she looked so serene and calm, Rosalie was loathe to wake her. It wouldn't take but a few moments anyway. Just replace the compress, then leave. No one needed to know. And besides, had Christine been awake, she would certainly have given Rosalie permission.

Her rationalizing carried her up to the bed. She paused, looking down on the man lying there. He was so still. It was hard to believe he was alive at all. She had to watch his chest carefully to even see the slightest motion. She stared at him, captivated by his features, and the strange mask that hid part of his face. What was under there? She shook her head to stop herself. This was nonsense. She wasn't going to even think about the mask, because if she did, she would get too curious. Curiosity killed the cat, she said to herself, one of Sophia's favorite sayings.

But as soon as she put her mind off the mask, a thousand other questions took her over. Who was he? Monsieur Fântome could not be his real name. Where was he from? How did Christine know him? Why was she so desperately concerned about his health? And why was it that he was at the de Chagny manor in the first place? Did he not have a home of his own, a family of his own? How had he gotten so ill? Why was he so thin? Why was the Viscount so hostile towards a man who seemed to be dying? It was obvious Raoul de Chagny did _not_ want Monsieur Fântome in his house. Such disagreement between the Viscount and Countess was almost unheard of. They matched each other so perfectly.

She shrugged off her thoughts and questions, resolving to think on them more later. Perhaps ask Christine some questions, if she had calmed down enough to want to talk about it. She reached for the compress still on his forehead, planning to change it. But she never got so far.

One moment her hand was moving, unhindered, toward the compress. The next, it was immobilized by a single, gloved hand. His strong fingers curled around her wrist and even had she not frozen in shock, she would not have been able to move her hand with all her force. Not while he prevented it.

"Good…morning, monsieur," she managed to choke out, trying not to scream. Cold, calculating eyes scanned her.

"Might you tell me, mademoiselle, who you are and where I am?" It was not really a question. His voice…she closed her eyes. It was compelling and so powerful. She could imagine a person doing things they would never dream of, if this voice told them to do so. She realized suddenly that she had not answered his question.

"I…my name is Rosalie. I'm a maid here, the de Chagny manor." He hissed, and his grip on her tightened.

"De Chagny," he growled under his breath, eyes flashing. Rosalie suddenly felt that she wanted nothing more than to be away from this room, this man. She twisted her wrist a little, experimentally.

"Monsieur, I would be happy to fetch Madame le Vicomtess for you." He looked up at her sharply. She put on her most innocent expression. He gazed into her eyes, and she had the unpleasant sensation he was reading her mind. He smirked at whatever he saw, but he released her.

"But of course," he said, not addressing anyone in particular. He appeared lost in his thoughts, so Rosalie took that as a welcome dismissal. She hurried from the room, breathless.

She was rushing down the hallways, mind racing, when she smacked head-on into Raoul. He seized her arms.

"Rosalie? What's wrong?"

"Christine, I need-"

"She's asleep." The look he gave her was full of suspicion. "What do you need with her?"

"It's Monsieur Fântome…he's awake."

All color drained from the Viscount's face, and he released her immediately, though his hands still remained curled. In a moment, they tightened into fists. He strode quickly down the hallway towards the room, and Rosalie was left shaken, watching his retreating back.

Raoul's mind stayed studiously blank as he rushed down the hallway. He refused to think about the mere idea that the Phantom of the Opera was now awake and in his home. Thinking about it was admitting it was even possible. He could not believe it. If he pretended it could not happen, perhaps it had not. He reached the doors, and pushed them open violently.

He stared into the now painfully open eyes of his archrival. He saw, for a moment, hope in them, before they filled with darkness again.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," Erik raised himself, until he was leaning against the headboard. He nodded mockingly, eyes glittering. "I did not expect to see you again."

"Nor did I expect to see you," Raoul managed to grit out from between clenched teeth. "Alive, at least." Erik smiled, and there were few things colder, or more terrifying.

"Now, now, monsieur. Manners. I am, to the best of my understanding, your guest."

"You do not understand, then." Raoul could not believe this was happening. He was standing mere feet away from this…creature. He was not even really a man anymore. This monster kidnapped his beloved Christine, murdered so many people, nearly strangled him! Whatever moved her to pity him certainly did not affect Raoul. "I took your sorry corpse into my home out of human charity."

"I never asked for your charity," Erik spat furiously, his eyes flashing with disgust. He sat up higher, strengthened by his rage, challenging the currently stronger man. Raoul was happy to accept.

"And I never offered it! Were it not for Christine—" He broke off at the look in Erik's eyes. They had softened suddenly, at the beloved sound of her name.

"Christine," he murmured, and all his longing and pain were obvious. It only enraged Raoul further.

"Do not speak her name," he hissed. "You are unworthy to even think of her!" Erik hardened in an instant.

"Fool," he snarled, pulling himself up still more, "I have done more, sacrificed more for her than you could ever imagine!"

"You nearly murdered her! Had I not come in time, I shudder to think what perversions you would have-"

"How dare you…you could never understand my devotion! I have loved nothing else in my life! Everything I did, everything I do, everything is Christine!" In his fury, he had ignored his weakened state. Now, however, it became obvious he had overexerted himself. Erik gasped and clutched at his chest, before tumbling backwards onto the bed again.

The door flew open, and a breathless Christine barreled in. She took in the scene a moment before rushing to her former angel's bedside. She lay the back of her hand across his forehead as his entire body shuddered.

"What did you do to him?" She demanded of Raoul, whirling around to face him. Raoul gaped at her.

"What did I…I didn't do anything!" Christine scowled.

"Rosalie said he was awake, and now look what's happened! Can you not restrain yourself from antagonizing him, even now, when he may be on his deathbed?"

"He was antagonizing me!" Raoul protested his innocence, crossing his arms across his chest. Christine stared at him. He looked like a petulant child. How could her Phantom have that strong of an effect on him? To make him immediately regress into an irritable youth. She ignored the nagging voice that asked 'and what of the effect he has on you?'

"Go fetch the doctor," she said, beginning to prepare a new compress. Perhaps busy hands would keep her from thinking highly unwelcome thoughts.

"I'm not leaving you in here with him!"

"Raoul," with some effort she turned away from the still shaking Erik to face her husband. "please." Raoul growled in the back of his throat, unable to deny his beloved.

"I'm sending Xavier up," he said as he left, the unspoken continuation of 'to keep an eye on him' very obvious.

Christine turned back to Erik and finished the compress. She then dipped a cloth into the bowl of clear, cool water and began gently wiping his face. He blinked once, then his eyes slowly flickered open. Her heart caught in her throat as, for the first time in a year, she stared into the eyes she had not allowed herself to miss.

"Christine…"

"I'm here." She seized the hand he was struggling to lift and squeezed it. "I'm here."

"You…" his speech was labored, as was his breathing. She ached, seeing him so weak. "You disobeyed me, Christine." She hung her head, but held his hand even tighter.

"I know. I am sorry. But I couldn't let you die." He gently stroked the side of her hand with his thumb and she looked back at him. His eyes were so full of pain, she almost started to cry again. But she bit her lip, steeling herself. She would not cry in front of him.

"You should have," he whispered, narrowing his eyes at her slightly. She had to stifle a gasp that she knew would have led to tears. The very thought of leaving him to die tore her heart to shreds. She had a sudden image of his frigid corpse sinking in the lake. She shuddered and lay her head against their still joined hands.

"Never," she could not bring her voice to more than a whisper of a whisper, for fear she would not be able to hold her tears, "I could never."

The sound of approaching footsteps startled her and she jerked backwards, dropping his hand. The door opened and Xavier entered. He smiled mildly at Erik.

"Good morning, monsieur."

"So they say," Erik growled, and Christine felt a twinge of guilt. Why had she reacted the way she did to Xavier's approach? It wasn't as though she had been doing anything inappropriate. She had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide. And she made him feel as though she was embarrassed by him. It all made her head throb, and she suddenly felt dizzy and enclosed.

"I think I will go have some breakfast, Xavier. Please wait with Monsieur Fântome until the doctor arrives."

"Of course, Madame," Xavier nodded politely. Christine made her way to the door, then turned suddenly, remembering.

"Would you like anything?" She asked, somewhat hopefully. Erik did not reply, choosing instead to fix her with a cool, low-level glare. It still froze her heart. She hurried out of the room, needing space far more than food.

**Erik didn't like doctors.** Prodding, poking people with no respect for one's personal space. Dr. Gillford was lucky that Erik was in such a weakened state, or he probably would not have left the room. However, that wasn't certain. Erik felt a strange compulsion not to kill in Christine's home. She had saved him, after all. The least he could do was respect her disapproval of violence. Though he wasn't really sure "saved" was the proper word. At the moment, he was of the opinion that death would be a far greater gift than any life he might win.

How long had he been here? How long had it been since that idiot doctor left? He was never talented with time. At the Opera, he had always been able to find what part of the day it was. When a performance started, it would be nearly nightfall. The ballerinas would practice at dawn, midday, as well as at several well-timed intervals in-between. He could guess how long it would be until certain events. How long until he could visit his angel. But even when he grasped the passage of days, when it was that days turned to weeks, months, years, still eluded him. Time was, of course, a highly subjective thing. To some, the idea of sitting in the darkness for untold hours was hell. It was his solace, his sanctuary.

He had sat there, in the lair he had created. He did not know how many days, how long exactly. For all he knew, it had all been only a day. Perhaps it was a thousand. He sat, he stared around at the flickering candles around him, and he asked 'how'? How did things go so wrong? How could she fear him? How could she not understand? How could she love that idiotic nobleman? How could he have let her slip through his fingers like that? How could he not? How could she betray him? She was his love, his life, the only light ever needed…how could she not see it? How could she fear the precious darkness he offered her? How could she deny him? How dare she!

Sometimes, during that untold expanse of time, he thought he had imagined it. The beautiful young soprano called Christine Daaé was only a figment of his fevered imagination. He had created her to fill his empty soul. _Then why would I have let her go?_ He would ask himself. _You could not stand to let yourself be happy, not even in fantasy._ He would answer himself. He would stare down at his hands, trying to read them. Had they really caressed the smooth, pale skin? Had they really conducted her from his hiding place during music lessons? Had they really slid the mirror aside to grant her access to his secret world? He lifted one hand and gently touched his lips. Had she really kissed him? Had she seen his true face, and kissed him anyway? Had he really tasted the salt from their mixed tears as he pulled away from everything he had ever wanted?

It was impossible, he would decide. She could not have existed. So perfect, so lovely a being could not be real. He could not have heard a voice so heavenly. And if by some gift of heaven, she had existed…she certainly would not have wasted a moment of thought on him. If Christine Daaé was real, he must have implanted her into his deranged fantasies. He would never have met her, touched her, sung with her. So she might as well have been imagined.

Then he would decide, since he had already disproved the existence of the one living thing that had meant anything to him, why should all other humans he had met exist? If he could imagine a single person with such vivid detail, why not an entire opera house? Maybe all of them, from Madame Giry, who had always been helpful to him, to the disgusting toad called Carlotta…maybe they were all bits of his mind. After this, he would resolve to disprove the rest of his life. All the people who had abused him during his youth. They weren't really there. So they couldn't have hurt him.

Finally, when he had stripped his life of everything, he would set about unraveling himself. Why should he exist, when it seemed no one else did? Why should he live, when everything there was to live for was false? Perhaps he did not live. He may have already died, and not known it. He doubted that. Sitting in the flickering light, staring into space…it was not the release he dreamed death would be. It would be the simplest thing to lose his balance, to slip into the lake and let himself sink. But he couldn't do it. He wasn't sure why, but he, who had taken more than his share of lives, could not take his own.

He could not say when it was that it began. The dizzy spells, the convulsions. Soon, it took effort to take a simple drink of water. He saw her. He saw her everywhere. She was standing by his organ, she was dancing in the candlelight, she was partially submerged in the lake. He begged her to come to him, but she never obeyed. So he cursed her, but she ignored him. She was always there, just outside his reach. So, when after a particularly bad fit, he saw her creeping cautiously into his sanctuary, he was not surprised. The surprise came when he reached for her, and his hand made contact. Everything flooded to him. She was real. He was real. Everything was real. He tried to make her leave, but his strength was all but gone. When he slipped into darkness, his last sight was her worried face, and his last feeling the unpleasant sensation of being dragged along the rough stones.

He was plagued by dreams. At least, he assumed they were dreams. He drifted in and out of total oblivion, never sure where he was, or what was happening. He thought he heard her voice. He struggled to open his eyes, but his body had turned to a prison. He was trapped, unable to inspire his traitorous muscles to react to his commands. He would feel as though he might awaken, hear her somewhere above him. Almost immediately, however, he would sink back into the black, where all was empty and silent. But then he heard the gentle, but knowing, footsteps of a servant. He remained motionless, and waited for his time to strike.

She lied to him. She promised him Christine, but she brought him the fop. His hands clenched into fists involuntarily at the thought of that scum. He, who seduced Erik's angel with nonsense whispers about daylight. She used to understand. He knew that she understood. She could see the nurturing, loving side of darkness. But the idiotic Viscount distracted her with fork-tongued lies of cold and danger. Fool! He frightened her and twisted everything Erik had worked so hard for. She fell in love with him. She was never supposed to love him. Erik couldn't imagine it. She had been his darling angel ever since she was small. And she dared to love some ridiculous nobleman?

He couldn't let her be unhappy. He tried. He tried to convince himself that it was better to hold her against her will than to let her be happy and free. So even when she swore she would stay with him, mend all the dreams her betrayal had shattered…he couldn't do it. He knew that she would be upset. And he could never see her unhappy. All he had done, he had done to make her happy, to make things better for her. But she didn't understand. She couldn't see it. And he knew he couldn't force her to see it. So he let her go. He sat at the edge of the lake and watched the only thing that could mean as much to him as music sail away.

And now he was near her again. It was driving him insane. She might be just outside the door, but she might as well be across the ocean. Not only did he lack the strength to rise from his bed, but she seemed so empty. Her mind used to be open to him, and he always could see and feel what she was feeling. Now she was closed off. Her eyes, which once sparkled, were vacant. Except for the shining of tears. She must have thought he couldn't see that she was about to cry. She didn't remember that he could tell. He always could tell, and he hadn't lost that gift.

The creaking of the door startled him, and he looked up sharply. He was alone in the room. Xavier had exited, under orders from the doctor to let Erik "have some rest". His breath caught in his throat. It was Christine.

"What did the doctor say?" She asked in a whisper. His heart dropped. Of course. She worried only about his health, so she could be rid of him as soon as possible. He quickly adopted his usual sarcastic cover.

"He didn't tell me a thing. Of course, I'm only the patient, what right have I to know?"

"Raoul wouldn't tell me what he said," she said, coming closer and biting her lip. If she had hoped to connect with Erik, she had ruined her chances merely by mentioning the hated name. He froze, and glowing eyes narrowed.

"I'm sure he does not wish to trouble you, Madame le Vicomtess." Christine physically shivered at the pure ice in his voice. But she was determined not to let him know how he affected her.

"You must be right," she said, trying to infuse her own voice with warmth to melt his ice, "but I still wanted to know."

"I'm sure my pitiful life is a source of much entertainment to you."

"Not at all!" She was mortified he could think such a thing of her. "I only worry about-"

"Don't." His tone was clipped now, impersonal. But in ways it was even more painful than the cold that had been in his voice previously. "Think on me no longer, Christine."

"But, but I-"

Erik steeled himself internally, though his face remained impassive. It killed him to say it, to even consider saying it. But he must. He had no choice in the matter.

"I have certainly ceased to think on you."

The way her face fell made him feel as though he was physically shattered, split in two. The tension pushed him towards insanity, and he almost wanted to burst into laughter that she believed his blatant lie. But he knew he could not be selfish any longer. He had to give her what was best for her, not what he wanted. She would be happiest if she forgot all about him, and lived in bliss with her ignorant husband. He would become nothing more than a shell without even the thought of her, but that was unimportant. All he should care about was her well-being. But even Erik would admit that it was hell watching her struggle not to break down.

"I shouldn't be here." She started backing towards the door. Though it was what he told himself he wanted, Erik was hurt by her sudden change. If she truly had cared about him, she would not give it up in no more than an instant.

"Why? Would Monsieur le Vicomte disapprove?" He spat out Raoul's title viciously, and Christine's eyes burned with more than tears.

"Yes, I believe he would. And he has a right to. He is, after all, my _husband_." It was a low, obvious dig. But that did not lessen the sting. Erik's eyes widened, the pain of her sharp words biting into him. Christine's own eyes grew, in shock at her vicious outburst. She had not known herself capable of such a thing.

"Leave me." Almost in tears, Christine turned to go. But as she lay her hand on the door handle, she remembered something and turned around. He glared at her, and she was almost too afraid to ask. But she steadied herself.

"Would it be too much to ask for my guest's name?"

"Given the circumstances, Madame, I believe so."

Christine could not stand to be in the room any longer, and quickly exited. Erik stared at the door long after she had disappeared. His mind raced, picturing far more enjoyable scenarios. Most of them involved singing, and a good deal of skin contact. But his fantasies would be all he had. He had now effectively shunned his beloved for the second time in as many years. He hated himself for it, but he was used to that. He shut his eyes wearily. The events of the day had tired him. It was time to sleep. However, he was no where near foolish enough to believe it would give him any kind of release.

**Author's Notes: Thank you my darlings for your dedication! I had less reviews this time (awww…) but a large number of hits (yay!) so I'm hoping there are readers not taking the time to review. To you I say: Thanks so much for reading, but try to take the time if you can! I love reviews; they really make me feel inspired to write more. I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations. On an unrelated note: I've been reading some books about writing romance. Hopefully that will help when it comes to sex scenes. Sex scenes? Who said sex scenes? I didn't say sex scenes.**

**Electricdragon: **Don't think I've seen you before. Glad you like! I personally don't think Raoul is mean…just deeply stupid. It's not his fault. He's a nobleman. Nobleman Fop ≠ Brain

**Twinkle22: **So very happy you're enjoying my fic! Hope this chapter lived up to your dreams .

**AMaskandanAngel: **Aw, the poor dear is trying as hard as he can. It's not his fault he was born with only half a brain. Pity him! Pity for the fop! Ahem. Anyway, currently basking in the glow of compliments. Bask is a fun word.

**Tamelia: **o.O So…many…lists….squee! Insert happy dance here. Okay, explanation time: Rosalie's mummy was a hooker. Her daddy was married, but his wife couldn't have kids. So when her daddy found out about Rosalie, he took her to come live with him and his wife. His wife was happy to have a kid, but pissed because she figured out that husband + hooker Rosalie. Rosalie then grows up, basically gets kicked out once her daddy dies, then starts working for the illustrious de Chagny clan. Clear as mud?

**Tune in for the next chapter: 'Triumph'**

**Also: somebody beta me! Please!**


End file.
